


I've Become the Only Thing I Hate

by bronweathanharthad



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:15:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25541965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronweathanharthad/pseuds/bronweathanharthad
Summary: a few snippets of Shivering Soldier struggling to readjust to his life after being sent home
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8
Collections: "I don't feel much like myself anymore"





	I've Become the Only Thing I Hate

**Author's Note:**

> -title is from "Body" by SYML
> 
> -getting into Daddy Issues(TM) because we love to project

_The ship has sunk almost before he realizes that they have been hit. The blood of the dead and dying clouds his vision, and the bodies shroud the water in darkness. He has no way of knowing which way is up. The screams of the wounded begin to die out. He inhales out of habit, and his lungs are greeted with the stinging pain of salt water._

He jolted up gasping for air as spots danced before his eyes. There was only enough outside light to give him a vague perception of his surroundings. _Come on, Dan,_ he said to himself. _You’re home. You know you’re home. Get a hold of yourself._ But no matter how many times he had had this dream, the disorientation that he felt upon waking remained the same.

“What’s the matter?” said the sleepy voice of his wife.

He rubbed his eyes, his fingers trembling despite his efforts to quiet them. “Just a dream,” he said. “I’m fine.”

She sat up with a sigh. “No you’re not.” As much as she wanted to ask him to talk to her, she suspected that he wouldn’t. This wasn’t the first time he had woken up in this state, but thus far he had declined to tell her the details of his dreams.

Instead she put her hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. But he only shrunk back at her touch. She quickly took the hint and withdrew her hand. “Suit yourself,” she said and lay back down.

He doubted that he would feel calm enough to go back to sleep anytime soon. Rather than lie there tossing and turning and probably keeping Alma awake, he left to check on their son. His night terrors had all but disappeared these days, but he would feel a little better knowing that he was okay.

Sure enough, Jonathan lay perfectly still in his bed. Even as a baby he seldom moved around in his sleep. And now he was faring surprisingly well despite the disaster in France and the rationing and the bombing drills. In spite of everything, he was still a child.

Did his father ever check on him or his sister during his undoubtedly numerous sleepless nights? If so, did the sight of his sleeping children offer any comfort at all, or was he too far gone for that? Would he, too, come to resent his son’s innocence?

Jonathan stirred as if he was about to wake up, but it was only to shift his sleeping position. Daniel took that as his cue to go back to bed.

Upon his return to his bedroom, he found that Alma, too, was asleep. She slept on her right side, her face facing his half of the bed.

She meant well and genuinely wanted to help him. He knew that. But he couldn’t stand her gentle encouragements to talk. She wouldn’t understand, and, God willing, she never would.

She was his wife. If there was anyone in the world that loved him, it was her. And that was why he couldn’t tell her.

_“Oil,” calls the pilot. “You’re getting into oil!”_

_He can’t feel the water splashing onto his hands, and his hands barely register the sensation of the soldiers’ clothing. The water is black, and one errant blow could set it aflame. And a dogfight is underway._

_His arms grow tired from pulling soldiers aboard, but he can’t stop now. Time isn’t on his side._

_The pilot shouts for the ship’s captain to go. A plane is falling fast._

He woke up to a hail of bullets. He was exposed, dangerously exposed. How could he let himself slip like that?

“Honey?”

He jumped as something brushed his arm.

“Dan, it’s only me.”

Rain. It was rain. Not gunfire.

With a deep breath he lay back down, one hand sliding under his pillow. The fear of gunfire hadn’t left him, and he was afraid to move.

Alma lay down with him, her gray eyes looking directly into his. “You’re safe,” she said, putting her hand on his cheek. “I promise you are.”

Her touch was the reminder he needed. His pulse began to settle, though he was still not calm enough for sleep.

He must have looked uneasy, for her brow furrowed in concern. “Don’t you believe me?”

He wanted to. God, he wanted to.

He stared at the water coming from the shower head, trying to steel himself for its impact. _It’s only shower water,_ he told himself. _It’s not going to hurt you._ But he didn’t believe his own words, and he hated himself for being this afraid of something so mundane.

He tested the water with his hand. The temperature seemed good, certainly warmer than the Channel. He took a deep, but shaky, breath and pulled back the curtain.

The water assaulted his body, and he found himself gripping the rod for support. His head swam as the water started to wet his hair. His breath came in ragged gasps, his attempts to take deep breaths proving to be in vain. For a flash he saw blood; whether it was his or someone else’s he couldn’t tell.

He turned off the shower with fumbling hands and continued to take ragged breaths as water dripped from his body.

_It’s your shower,_ shouted the one part of his brain that wasn’t paralyzed with fear. _What the hell is wrong with you?_

He had no way of knowing from one day to the next whether he would shower without feeling this kind of panic. He should have taken more than enough showers by now to know that they were perfectly safe, but here he was.

How could he move on when his daily routine came with the risk of setting him off?

_Things are quiet. Most of the men are too exhausted to talk, and those that do talk in hushed tones. But his heart races when he hears the pilot say something about a fighter._

_The ship’s captain starts calling out instructions. The men around him make themselves as small and hidden as they can, and he does the same. But what’s the point? The little boat is an easy target, absolutely defenseless. And the steady voice of the captain does nothing to assuage his fears._

_This is it. This is finally it. This will all be for nothing._

_In silence he tells his wife and son that he loves them._

He was sweating despite the cold weather, but in his frantic glances around the room he noticed that he hadn’t woken his wife. But why would this dream frighten him? They had all survived thanks to his brother-in-law.

He inched closer to Alma, moving slowly so as to avoid waking her. Her mouth was curled into a frown, but she looked to be in deep sleep. Whatever it was, he hoped she wasn’t dreaming about her brother. The news of his capture had undoubtedly upset her greatly, and Daniel had no wish to air his own troubles at the risk of adding to hers.

He asked his mother a couple of times what was wrong with his father, and both time she admitted that he hadn’t told her. And now here he was doing the same to his wife. He told himself that she didn’t need to know, that for her own sake she _shouldn’t_ know, but he didn’t know if that was true or if he had only made himself believe it.

This wasn’t him. He and Alma had always been open with each other. This was cowardly.

Alma and Jonathan danced as the radio played “In the Mood,” a beaming smile on Alma’s face all the while. Daniel hadn’t seen her that carefree since the start of the war, but he couldn’t quite match her enthusiasm, nor was he up for joining his wife and son. He put on a smile and watched from a distance, hoping that his not-quite-happy mood wouldn’t sour theirs.

He flinched at a loud, high-pitched sound and glanced around frantically for the source. Only when Alma said “I’ll get it” did he realize it was the kettle.

“Dad, are you okay?”

Trying to smile again, he said, “Yeah, I’m fine.” But his son did not look satisfied with his answer.

Alma, too, noticed his state, but by now she could comfortably conceal her worry, at least while in the presence of their son. “Johnny, will you get the sugar, please?”

She lowered the volume of the radio. “Was it the kettle?” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, too ashamed to look in her the eye. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.” She smiled as Jonathan returned with the sugar. “Ah, thank you, Johnny.” She poured everyone’s cups, giving Daniel’s hand a reassuring squeeze after pouring his.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” Daniel said to Jonathan. “I’m just a little high-strung today; that’s all.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t scare me.”

“Okay. But you can tell me when you’re scared.”

Jonathan nodded, and Alma looked at Daniel with an expression he could not understand.

“I’m sorry,” Daniel said again as he and Alma washed the dishes.

“It’s okay,” she said, “really.”

“It’s just … I’m not … well, I haven’t been me. And I’m sorry that I can’t pull myself together.”

She dried her hands on a towel and put her hand firmly on his upper arm, her eyes matching the intensity of her grip. “Daniel, I love you. No matter who you were or who you are now, I love you.”

He didn’t answer. Doubt gnawed at him despite the insistence in her voice.

Her eyes softened. “You’re thinking about your dad, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “What if I end up like him?”

“You won’t.” She kissed him on the corner of his mouth. “I know you won’t.”


End file.
